


When wolves howl, the hounds must join them...

by CaptainRilee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Get together fic, One Shot, Queen in the North, San/san - Freeform, because fuck the final season and D & D, sansa gets what she wants FINALLY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainRilee/pseuds/CaptainRilee
Summary: “You think that makes me good?” he rasped. The open derision on his face would have made her quail in King’s Landing, now she recognized it for what it was…a feint.“No,” she said softly, “I don’t think it makes you a good man...I know it does.”The Lady of Winterfell has a few thoughts for her loyal Hound, and she will convince him. Willingly or not.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 94





	When wolves howl, the hounds must join them...

**Author's Note:**

> Intentionally ambiguous timeline. Sansa's in charge of Winterfell and she's got things she need to do. 
> 
> Like Sandor.

She was wrapped in a wool dressing gown, fur-lined and warm before the roaring hearth fire. Long gone were the silks and linens of King’s Landing. They would be of little use to her in the frozen wilds of the North. 

She contemplated the man across from her, and wondered, not for the first time, how they both managed to survive this far. How grateful she was that he was whole and hale and sitting across from her. However begrudgingly.

“You promised wine, little bird,” he growled, “All this time hasn’t turned you into a liar has it?” 

She raised an eyebrow imperiously and poured. Dornish sour was nigh impossible to find this far north but she tried and triumphed all the same. 

“You don’t like many things,” she remarked, “But I do know your taste for lies and drink.” 

He scoffed, “And fighting and killing, can’t forget what I’m good at.” 

Her face turned thoughtful, she mulled over his words and found them wanting. 

“You like killing. That makes you a killer. But you don’t like pain. You don’t enjoy torturing others. You’re even...merciful.” 

He drank deeply, his eyes on her as he took his fill. He smacked his lips when he finished, drying his beard with his hand. 

“You think that makes me  _ good _ ?” he rasped. The open derision on his face would have made her quail in King’s Landing, now she recognized it for what it was…a feint. 

“No,” she said softly, “I don’t think it makes you a good man...I  _ know _ it does.” 

His lip curled back, a snarl or some sort of sneering comment had formed on his tongue but she cut through his blustering with a few words. 

“Ask me,” she demanded. 

His eyes locked to hers, his face shifting into puzzlement. “What?” 

She moved in her seat, her spine straightening, shoulders rolling into an even line, every inch a Stark of Winterfell. 

“Ask me...how I know.” Each word landed like a slap but he was unsure why he felt so disoriented, confused by the weight of purpose in her voice. 

She stood, shaking her head softly, “No. It’s better this way. I will show you.” 

She turned away from him, her hands pulling at the direwolf clasp at her throat, the coarse wool belt at her waist. With her back turned to the fire he had no idea what she was doing. It wasn’t until her hands pulled her collar apart and her naked shoulders were exposed that he let out a strangled cry. 

“The fuck are you doing?” he rasped, his voice hoarse. 

“Showing you.” Her dressing gown pooled on the ground and she stepped back into the firelight to face him in nothing but her small clothes. 

His drink was abandoned on the table, he remained in his chair but his eyes were turned away, rooted to the far corner, completely opposite from where she stood illuminated in the firelight. 

“Look at me,” her voice was dark, without a trace of gentleness. 

He was breathing hard, his gaze did not waver at all. His hand lay upon his thigh, it curled into a fist. 

“Look at me!” she demanded. 

His eyes shot to her face in shock at her outburst and for a long moment he seemed determined to look only at her face. Then his gaze dipped down, sliding over her skin. He blinked hard, his brow furrowed, his head turned a touch as if he wanted to shake it in denial. Still, he took in the sight. The dozens of scars that littered the landscape of her skin. A few were white with age, some thin and faint, but most of them were jagged and uneven, still pink. 

“Don’t you dare look away.” She stepped towards him. 

He tipped his chin up, his throat swallowing hard. With each step closer he sank further into his seat, leaning back as far as he could...but his eyes never left her. 

By the time she stood at his knees, his breathing was harsh, his fists tense and white across the knuckles. 

When she spoke again, every word carried its understanding, “I know you’re a good man. I’ve always known. Because it hurts you to look. To see this.” 

She reached out for his hand. 

“Don’t,” he snarled, but it was a wounded, agonizing sound. 

She ignored him. “You won’t hurt me.” 

It was only when she took his hand in hers that she realized he was shaking. His fist was a knot in her grasp, but she coaxed his fingers open, uncurling his long broad fingertips with her own. 

She placed his hand on her thigh, just above her knee, where a long thin scar circled a quarter of its width. “This is where Ser Meryn struck me the day they stripped me in court. It was mostly the flat of his sword, it didn’t bleed much.” 

She took up his hand again, and placed it on her forearm, a jagged scar etched like lightning across it. 

“This is where Ramsey Bolton held a knife to my skin. He starved me for two days then left my food just out of reach. Made me stretch and stretch to grab it only to pull the knife across my own skin with the effort.”

Then she brought his hand to her lips, gently resting his fingertips against her mouth. 

“There’s no scar here,” her breath was warm against his hand, her lips brushing his skin gently with each word she spoke, “But this is where Petyr Baelish kissed me.”

They all desired her, wanted to possess her for her beauty, her name, her claim to the North. To them, she was little more than a vessel to carry their heirs or praise their victories of conquered lands. Her body was a battlefield, a brothel, a womb. She would be a punching bag for their fists, a cunt for their cocks, and a face for their legacy.

But here she was, exposed in every way, holding Sandor’s hand to her skin like she wanted him there. 

“Gods be damned, girl, what do you want?” 

She pressed her face into his hand, brought her lips to his palm, cradling it against her cheek. He did not resist, but he did not participate. 

“I want my own choice,” Sansa whispered, but her voice was strong with conviction, “I want to fall asleep with the knowledge that I am wanted as I am, not for who I am or what I have.” 

Sandor felt hot tears against his fingers, and his thumb came up to sweep them away. His fingers brushed the corner of her mouth, tracing the curve. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he ground out, “I’m not some bloody knight from your stories.” 

“No, you’re not—never will be,” she acknowledged, “You are too crass, with too many hard edges and not nearly enough courtesy.” Her lips curled, a touch of a smile. “Step outside, Clegane. Look around. You were made for the North. Made for this harsh, cold land that is as frank and unapologetic as you are…”

He could only stare at her, disbelief colored every line of his face. She shifted, her eyes softening, and the tenderness he found there knocked the wind out of him; he had to close his eyes against the possibilities he saw in her gaze. 

Sansa’s voice was low, light as a feather, “But that’s not what I’m asking for…” 

She stepped in between his knees and he groaned like she wounded him. She leaned forward, bringing her hands up to settle on his face, so he might feel the full sensation of her touch and know she was not afraid. His fingers slid across her cheek, tangling into her hair. She pressed her forehead against his and closed her eyes, simply breathing him in. 

“I will ask nothing of you,” she said, “I only wish to know what you think.” 

“ _ Think,”  _ he gasped, “you bloody tease, you want me to  _ think _ at a time like this?” 

Before she knew what was happening he sprang forward and hauled her into his lap. She gave a small squeak of surprise, but he paid her no mind, draping her across his knees and cradling her to his chest like he never intended to put her down again. 

He brushed her hair from her eyes and pinned it back with his hand. His thumb slid along the strands. 

“I think I should have dragged you kicking and screaming out of the Red Keep, wildfire be damned. I think I should have cut Littlefucker’s throat to the bone the moment he set eyes on you. I think I’d cut off my sword hand if it meant these…” he passed his hand over her skin, not quite touching her or the scars, like he needed permission, “…if I could take these away, I would.” 

She took his hand where it hovered and pressed it against her skin. “I know. Thank you. I’d rather you kept your hands just now.” 

His eyes darkened at that, “For what?” 

She tipped her chin up, all defiance, “Whatever the hell we want.” 

His eyes glimmered with promise, “Well, little bird, show me what you want.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that as much as I loved writing it. More San/San on my author's page if you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Comments bring me an inordinate amount on joy in this very strange time in our lives, but kudos are also coveted ferociously.


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